


if you thirst for perfumed wines

by Kt_fairy



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: First Time, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Roman AU, armitage and heather cameo, jfj sort of in a dress, party time, take the carnivale and make it roman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29355354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: “Io Saturnalia,”the equites greeted him, voice clear above the din. The centurion returned it, distracted by the soft stain of wine on his stern Roman mouth.ORrarepair romans make the most of the office partyfor rarepair week prompt - Carnivalefor my Terror bingo 2021 prompt -an offering
Relationships: James Fitzjames/Solomon Tozer
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	if you thirst for perfumed wines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gwerfel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwerfel/gifts).



> uuuuhhhhh yeah. So. This is a thing lool. The reworked first part of what was going to be a much larger fic but... yeah. Word machine no work.
> 
> I Roman-ed hard in some places, and others waved the hand to make the fic work. So all things historically wrong are my own. And there's a glossary at the end for Roman terms/names people might not be familiar with.
> 
> An incredibly late Christmas present for Gwerfel, who just wanted some Roman Walmsley - thanks for all the support and patience and love while I was all over the place. 
> 
> I always forget to say where I got my titles from. So this is from; Martial, Epigram 14.110.

Vindolanda, the grim grey fort at the northern edge of Britannia - the wild province at the end of the world - was tonight transformed into a grove of nymphs like those described in overlong Greek poems; set high up on some lush green mountainside and full of bright wonders beyond a mortals reckoning. 

This was not the first Saturnalia that this distant piece of civilisation had seen, and certainly not the centurion’s first either. The festival was always colourful and noisy, filling the longest night of the year - a dismal prospect in a place like this - with the joy of good friends together; but this night felt warmer than usual somehow, even though there was nothing but the damp pavers beneath the legionaries feet and a blanket of cold stars above their heads.

The company felt closer, even though the festivities seemed to have spread to every corner of the fort; the streets between the long, red painted barracks were packed full of soldiers singing tunelessly and clapping their hands along to the music of flutes and the droning askaule. The golden glow of the oil lamps and flickering wax tapers burnt brighter than ever, catching the faded colour of the streamers shifting in the breeze, while what little greenery there had been left to collect from the trees or the riverbanks now hung as vivid as newly dyed cloth in swathes between the doors of the barracks. The wreaths and garlands hung carefully in the temples of the gods seeming as lush as spring. 

Maybe that was why it all felt so heady; the gods were pleased and had blessed the celebration, the centurion decided as he drained his fourth cup of wine. No - third? Anyway, the cup was quickly filled by his optio, who had served with the centurion for so long that the older man could throw a brotherly arm about him as he asked, “having a good Saturnalia, my friend?” 

“S’not bad for ‘the best of nights’,” he smiled, waving his cup towards the signifer, whose dark curls were crushed by a brightly coloured cap that only made him look more sotted and startled. “Lad,” the centurion tottered forward to shout into the signifer’s good ear to be heard over the music, “tell the optio how you’re enjoying Saturnalia.”

“I’m drunk,” he told them earnestly, pointing to the berry smudges of women’s kisses on his cheek, grinning when the optio clapped him on the back. 

A great _whoop_ went up, and they turned to watch the Thracian cavalrymen trying to dance in circles to the discordant tunes being played, laughing at their bow-legged foundering. Draining his cup again, the centurion pondered that the god who was pleased might just be twice born Dionysos, god of the grape and of dance, who was making the night so golden and the wine so strong and sweet.

He adjusted the circle of ivy his optio had dropped onto his head, sure that he was not drunk yet, just warm and content; tongue feeling loose despite not having much of anything to say. His eyes wandered around the chaotic revels, the brightly dressed figures - some in costume, others decked in wreaths, some hauling large terracotta amphorae of wine - flitting in and out of the pitch darkness that was being pushed back into the night sky by all the fires and lamps. 

“A sign of the new year to come,” the centurion shouted to his signifer. He patted his flushed cheek, dislodging the cap from his dark curls as he shoved him towards the group of local women who threw their arms about the lad and plied him to even more kisses. 

“And let _that_ be a sign too,” his optio said as he poured a libation, giving the centurion a look that was as good as a nudge. He was called away before the centurion could think to react, pulled towards’ the collection of low stools and upturned crates where men were gathered to gamble in the brightest light of the fires - the optio’s presence demanded to umpire an intense game of terni lapilli being played on an old roof slate. 

The centurion wandered after him to peer at the game. He considered joining, then straightened and looked about, not quite drunk enough to wholly let himself go in front of the officers, who were right in the midst of the party. It was satisfying to watch the priggish young patricians stumble about, foolish with drink and on the brink of emptying their guts; making a un-Roman spectacle of themselves compared to the old salts, the experienced tribunes and prefects who were changing money over knucklebones, or leading the bawdy singing of the men they had commanded for years.

The optio’s words, subtle as they were, rang in his head as he looked about. It was bad luck to lie during a festival for the gods, and especially dangerous to lie to yourself, so the centurion would not pretend that he wasn’t keeping a hopeful eye out for a certain long limbed young officer; handsome enough to draw the eye of men who knew better (namely this battle scarred centurion), and a young buck even by the usual standards for a Knight of Rome. 

He had arrived one year ago with a scandal involving the Governor’s son on his heels; his fine looks matched by his clothes and perfect manners. The centurion had imagined having to lead this feckless aristocrat by the hand through his duties as tribune of the first cohort of Legio 9th Hispania - a position that should come with merit rather that political intrigue. Instead he had found a competent man, an intelligent man, who gave more of a damn about the legionnaires under his command than most; insisting on cleanliness of men, and equipment and regular exercise.

The soldiers grumbled about it of course, complaining was one of their few pleasures in life. But when it brought commendations from the general, and fewer rattling chests in the endless British winter, in the end they loved him for it. 

All in all, he had been a pleasant surprise; the equites took advice from the centurion, pulled more than his weight when attending to his duties. And on the odd occasion the centurion had forgotten himself on later nights discussing duty rotas, or sweating with exertion in the dusty palaestra or the steaming heat of the baths, and had looked at the equites for longer than he should - at the arch of his brow or the turn of his wrist or the strength of his thighs - he had not been annoyed. Instead, with the light of boldness in his eye, glinting like a swords edge, the equites would look right back.

The centurion was distracted a moment, plucking a honeyed something from a bowl offered to him, and when he glanced up he finally caught sight of his equites through the noise and the colour. He was standing beside one of the groups of gamblers, close enough to the light for the centurion to see the pink on his cheeks and the errant leaf stuck in his hair, and the disordered collar of the long, saffron yellow Greek mantle he wore for the occasion. He looked up after a long moment, and seemed pleased to see the centurion; his dark, penetrating gaze causing warmth to settle where it probably shouldn’t.

The equites raised his cup with a smile, and the centurion returned the greeting, although there was only a dribble of wine left in his, eyes resting heavily on the equites as he threw his head back to drain his cup.

All things were on their heads for the Saturnalia. Whereas moments like this might usually be allowed to pass for propriety’s sake - and the centurion was more than happy to admire lovely things from a safe distance - tonight he found himself thinking of the optio’s libation, an offering of wine for the gods favour, as he jerked his head away from the celebrations. 

What the centurion expected to happen when the equites stepped up to him, he did not know. What he hoped would happen, in the vague way of a man who was starting to feel the long, dark winter in his bones, and had drunk four cups of strong wine, was that the beautiful young officer he had taken a fancy to might lead them both somewhere dark. And private.

“ _Io Saturnalia_ ,” the equites greeted him, voice clear above the din. The centurion returned it, distracted by the soft stain of wine on his stern Roman mouth.

They weaved their way through the disparate, ever shifting groups of soldiers, no pretence needed in the swirl of light and colour and the headiness of wine. The equites leading and the centurion following, as always, although there were a few more turned heads than usual as they passed. Or maybe the centurion was just more aware of it, especially when the equites reached out to grab a hold of the edge of his sleeve to lead him through the weathered portico and across the torch lined courtyard of the principia, the army headquarters, and towards the holly wreathed doorway to his quarters.

The centurion stood dumbly, his mind in a whirl, his face hot, and his pulse rapidly descending between his legs as he watched the equites open his carved wooden door and push aside the heavy leather curtain that was hung to keep out the draughts.

He could see him better in the bright courtyard; the vulnerable back of his neck and the strength across his shoulders that was somehow not at odds with the long, pale yellow mantle he wore, belted tightly to his waist like a woman (but then Greeks did dress strangely). Each part of the equites face and form had been set out with considered precision, like an artisan had agonised over every line while carving him from some fine marble, and yet he was touched so delicately by Venus' soft art.

That extravagant thought made the centurion close his eyes, telling himself he was not as drunk as the revellers who were still thundering on outside the walls of the principia. All while offering up a prayer for the gods, which felt like the done thing on occasions like this - where wants and luck overlapped.

“What is it?” 

He opened his eyes, looking to the equites who had paused with his doeskin boot resting on the threshold, a curious tilt to his eyebrows as his keen gaze flicked over the centurion, lingering where the folds of his off-white tunic were being disrupted by his hopeful prick. 

“Making sure I’m not drunk.”

“At Saturnalia?” the equites asked, his smile warm. 

“All right. Sentiment then,” the centurion said, stepping forward to crowd the equites into the room, letting the curtain fall closed behind him.

There was one oil lamp set on a low table, burning just brightly enough for them to see by in the dark room. The centurion did not look around, he had been in and out enough times on official business that he already knew the woven blankets piled on the bed, the stand propped up in the corner with the equites armour set upon it, the neat piles of wooden tablets on the desk. Instead he reached out while the equites was saying, “I’d not have you here if either of us were too drunk,” grasping him by the belt to draw him close enough to a kiss. 

Fingers grabbed awkwardly at his shoulders, then touched his face as they swayed together; the tang of wine in the equites’ warm mouth, and the slide of his strong thigh against the centurion’s prick an intoxicating mix.

“Oh,” the equites gasped in a puff of warm air against the centurion's lips, pulling back just enough for the lamp light to catch in his wine dark eyes as he trailed his hand slowly over the centurion's chest. “You taste like honey.”

When he thought about this later - and he would do, more than once - the centurion would not be able to say just what it was about it that drove him to crush the equites in his arms. To grasp the fine cloth of the equites mantle, digging his fingers into the planes and soft angles of his body as he backed him against the painted wall. 

Hands knocked and arms got in the way as they scrabbled at one another's clothing. The equites ruckup the centurion’s tunic and pushing down his woollen braccae to palm distractedly at his hips and prick, while the centurion was still hauling up the yards of yellow fabric of his stupid costume. 

“Bloody Greeks,” he grunted in triumph when he could finally grasp any bit of the equites he wanted, “thought you lot were all about this.”

The equites laughed, tipping his back against the wall, and the centurion pressed his lips to his throat as he took him in hand. They tugged at one another, testing, then firmly, with all the clumsy rush of passion, glancing kisses across one another's mouths or cheeks, hands roaming over the centurion’s shoulders while he grabbed at the equites’ backside, squeezing just hard enough to make his hips jerk.

The equites flung a searching hand out towards the desk beside them, something being knocked over before he held up a delicate alabastron. The centurion did not care when the twisting grip on his pick fell away, losing all rhythm himself as he watched the equites pour some of the golden oil on to his long fingers, warming it a moment before wrapping them around his prick; the slick attention making him groan.

“Let me just -” the equites breathed, voice low and ragged as he tucked the hem of his mantle into the belt and pressed his knees tight together. The centurion swore when he saw what he intended, curling his palm around the equites’ hip and knocking his hand away so he could guide his prick between his long, muscular thighs.

It was ungainly, and would be more so if they were not so close in height, but the slick, tight heat wiped away all such thoughts. He braced a forearm on the chilled wall behind the equites as he fucked the hot crease between his legs, making sure to rub his belly against the line of his prick so he could watch the veneer of polite detachment patricians put on for such acts fall away. 

The musical din of the Saturnalia, like a wedding band celebrating a consummation, was a distant thrum now. The small room was full of their grunts and hard breathing and the lewd sounds of oiled skin meeting as they rutted together. The centurion held the equites tightly by the waist when he buried his face into the crook of his neck, licking the salty tang of sweat from his skin as he chased his pleasure to its climax between his legs.

Shaky fingers slid into the centurion’s hair as he sagged, boneless and hot and trying to catch his breath. He picked his head up, knocking his nose against the equites as he took him in hand, pressing him tightly against the wall while he quickly pulled him off, hips twitching into the mess he had left on those winter pale thighs.

* ***** *

"Optio?" the signifer called over the rhythmic whirr of music and the banging of the drums, leaning out of the milk white arms that were embracing him so tightly.

"Better not be asking me for advice, young man," the optio chuckled as he held his cup out for more wine.

"The centurion's disappeared, d’you think he's all right?"

The optio did not laugh, but patted the younger man on the arm. "He's in a safe pair of hands and having a fine time," he nodded to the red haired woman who was stroking the signifers shoulders, "and you enjoy your safe hands too."

* ***** *

A rumble against his chest pulled him rudely from the soft weight of sleep. He did not open his eyes, he was too deep in an aching sort of comfort, and it took him a moment to realise he was being spoken to.

"What?" he mumbled, feeling about until his hand rested on a warm shoulder. 

"I said that I've felt worse after Saturnalia."

The centurion lay a moment to see if he agreed. Which he did. And not just because of the twinge in his lower regions from their many exertions the night before, each delight coming back to him through the haze of sleep. Or the long, warm leg tucked securely between his own, nudging lightly against his not so dormant prick.

"Left before we'd drunk too much," he eventually said, feeling the head resting on his shoulder nod.

"Very wise choice on your part."

"To leave before I was drunk, or leave with you?"

The equites shifted, his body pressing tighter against the centurion for a moment before easing back. "I'll leave that to your wisdom," he said, "I know my wisdom has it be some of one and more of the other."

He could never speak simply. None of his lot - well born patricians, members of the noble families of Rome - ever did. Always needed to sound like a philosopher. The centurion was only a half educated farm boy from Judea who knew little more about the world than he needed to, but he thought that his equites usually knew what he was jabbering on about. It was as if he had too many thoughts in his head (rare for an officer), each one as learned as the one before it (also rare).

The equites looked up, gaze so clear and unwavering for the morning after Saturnalia, and the centurion realised he was expected to answer. 

The centurion was a lifelong soldier; no one cared for his opinion, or ever took the time to listen to it. But the equites had always wished to hear his thoughts or opinions. It was such a small thing, and could be infuriating at times, but Eros had taken aim at men’s hearts for less.

"Well," he said, running his fingers down the equites’ back. "I think this might bring more long lasting good than a few drinks."

The equites smiled at him like the centurion had said something profound. "You mused on the same thing when all the wine was being delivered last week. Except then the 'good' was a barrel of oysters. But I shall take it as a compliment."

"You're just as nice as a barrel of oysters," he murmured, pulling him in for a kiss while the equites laughed softly. 

He could happily become a man who luxuriated in his bed, he thought as they traded lazy morning kisses, the experience new enough that they lost themselves in the curiosity of the other's mouth. He held the equites tightly to him, willing to ignore the impending day’s duties for a moment or two, but the equites made a noise of realisation and pulled away. The centurion let him, watching as he rolled over and half sat up so he could peer at the sun through the window set high in the wall.

"The legate gave everyone until the third hour from dawn," the centurion said, laying his hand on the equites hip. "Don't have to drag the lads to the palaestra just yet."

"Everyone will feel better for sweating the wine out," he pronounced, then shot a sly glance down at the centurion who snorted.

"Is that right?" he asked.

"Maybe," he shrugged coyly, reaching off the bed for the water skin.

The centurion managed to not spill any as he gulped mouthfuls of the slightly stale, ice cold water, feeling it trickle down into his belly, then handed it back to the equites _._ He watched the line of his throat as he drank deeply, taking note of the faint red marks from the rasp of his beard against the equites’ smooth skin.

He put his hand on the equites’ hip again, letting it slip lower when the equites smiled as he laid back down beside him. 

* ***** *

"You disappeared pretty sharpish last night," the optio said much later in the morning. He had to raise his voice over the grunts and shouts of the men staggering through their wrestling exercises, or laughing and heckling while clattering one another with their wooden training swords and wicker shields.

"I did," the centurion nodded, rolling his shoulder to try and release the ache he had woken up with. He knew the cause, could clearly remember every moment of bracing both his and the equites’ weight against the bed, and couldn’t find it in himself to regret it one bit; even if it meant he had to mostly stand and watch rather than join in some of the roughhousing.

Like the equites was engaging in over on the far side of the dark, draughty space; letting one of the other officers try (and fail) to shove his statuesque frame across the room and laughing all the while, joyously immovable.

"Good," the older man said, nodding to the faint finger shaped marks on the centurion's bare, sand dusted hips when he made a questioning noise, "finally happened did it?" 

The centurion considered being embarrassed; the marks were not left purposefully, but they were still noticeable, and from hands large enough that gossiping legionaries would work it out soon enough. But, he thought as he glanced down at the dark smudges, it was not as if other men did not indulge fancies or have lovers in every part of the Empire. Even in their corner, where many legionaries had a mate to turn to when away from camp, or had a loyalty between them. It was expected, frankly; there was no shame if all conducted themselves well, and the equites always knew just what to do, and how to do it. 

"Yeah," he muttered, and the optio smiled kindly. 

"You'll both make everyone stinking jealous, my friend," he said, and that made the centurion feel a bit strange. He was very glad that he was not aware of any talk about himself, although he could guess at what a legionary might say of the handsome young officer. _His_ handsome young officer.

He cleared his throat and set his fists on his hips, grunting, " _good_ ," in reply, and the optio laughed as he patted him on the back. 

**Author's Note:**

> Centurion - commander of 80 men in a legion.  
> Optio - Centurion's righthand man  
> Signifer - the standardbearer  
> Equites - a social rank in Rome, one below a senator. Horse Boys, hence "knights of rome"  
> Saturnalia - Religious festival held in December, was amalgamated into Christmas/ Twelfth Night  
> Vindolanda - one of the main forts alone Hadrians Wall. A border structure/ customs posts build across the middle of Britain to separate Roman Britain from Caledonia.  
> Aulos and Askaule - a flute and a bagpipe.  
> terni lapilli - noughts and crosses  
> palaestra - the gym! fraterem, ne forte elevatis?  
> Braccae - calf length trousers worn under a tunic.  
> Thrace - mostly in modern day Bulgaria
> 
> If you made it this far, thank you! Comments appreciated!


End file.
